


Under My Window

by Kitty (Katatafish)



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Alcohol, Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - 1920s, Alternate Universe - Human, Brunch, Drug Dealing, Drug Use, Drugs, Equestrian, Journalism, London, M/M, Money, Multi, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Partying, Prostitution, Recreational Drug Use, polo
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-02-24
Updated: 2019-03-31
Packaged: 2019-11-04 15:58:45
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 11,038
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17901134
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Katatafish/pseuds/Kitty
Summary: Young aspiring journalist Arthur Kirkland travels from his countryside village to the city of London with the hope of finding the story that will kick-start his career. During this trip, he becomes acquainted with French socialite Francis Bonnefoy and his group of friends, and soon becomes involved in their vice-fuelled lives. His articles rocket in popularity, but what might seem like a dream come true, may just become something of a nightmare.[FrUK, SpaMano]





	1. Jewels Between Teeth

_Another month, another magazine, and once again our friend- the effervescent and dear Seigneur Francis Bonnefoy- has seen fit to bless us all with another one of his esteemed poems. In our very own periodical, no less! It is a reassurance to know that here at ‘Le Maitre’, we offer a platform for those less gifted by way of literary talent than ourselves. A humbling concept indeed. However, once again, it falls upon myself to read such perverse scrawlings, so that I may save you- our divine readers- the displeasure of experiencing them yourself._

 

_This time, the young Parisien has chosen for a lowly street-moll, with her yellowed teeth and diseased flesh, to be the focal point of his poetry. Perhaps she has a raging addiction to the poorest quality narcotics the streets of Whitehall have to offer. Alternatively, she could have a brood of seven starving children tucked away in some bedsit on the outskirts of London Town. Of course, there’s always the possibility that both may be the case. There’s no way for us to know, as Bonnefoy has not divulged much information with us throughout this piece, but anyone uncomfortably familiar with his work will know these to be the common features of the whores who inhabit his poems._

 

_You see- more so than the writer’s poor, painfully poor English skills, and more so than the absolutely abysmal literary skills- the issue with dear Francis’ writing is the lack of range he has displayed in the two years we have been regularly receiving his work, and presumably, the years that came before also. Whore, after drunkard, after whore. Which begs the question- how is it that our good fellow and his group of continental dandy associates truly views our fine English society? Surely this is not the picture they have gained of us Britons, through the windows of their top-quality school boarding houses, or from the doorstep of their Chelsea townhouses. And one has to wonder- if this is how they think- then why are they still here at all?_

 

* * *

 

 

Soft fingers, pale with a white powder coating, curl around the perfectly pressed edges of the magazine held open in his lap. Confectioner’s sugar, most likely- the petit fours have not been difficult to come by, plate after plate of sweet cakes and dainty pastries carried under silver cloches. The discreet but elegant Tokyo boxes, on the other hand, have yet to make their debut this evening. The paper was fresh from the printer only an hour ago, Lovino had assured him, ready for sale when the sun rises on the other side of midnight. Manicured nails carve crescents in the tail ends of some sentences, that fresh ink staining them the black of a dedicated poet rather than that of a field labourer. A dedicated poet no longer, perhaps.

 

He gasps, scandalised, as a syrup sweet voice ringing out behind him emphasises every other word with a painful jesting tone. Whether he is struggling to hear her as a crescendo of brass and drums rises not far away from his sunken velvet couch, or whether it is simply the case that he is choosing not to acknowledge the slander, he is blissfully unsure.

 

“How absolutely _ghastly_. Francis, you poor thing,” Erzsebet whines as she finishes reading, giving the Frenchman a moment to ponder as she drapes herself over his shoulders from behind.

 

Long auburn silk-like hair cascades down the side of his neck as though it were a fine scarf, but the colour clashes terribly so with the peacock teal cashmere of Francis’ dinner jacket. She holds a long, thin cigarette- without a holder, because what is life without a few risks- up to delicately sculpted lips, which accept it gratefully, with all the vigour one would expect from such a passionate soul. Strings of sparkling jewels reflecting the lights from a dozen chandeliers rattle in his ear as she moves back for a brief moment, taking the cigarette with her as she leans back to escape the cloud of smoke he exhales.

 

“I don’t want this going to print tomorrow, mon puce,” Francis puts on his most assertive tone, but he’s never been one for direct conflict, and the creeping onslaught of slur in his voice does deaden the effect somewhat. He shifts in his seat, struggling to cross one leg over the other in the dip of the cushion, as he turns to face the young, stern-faced italian lounging to his right with an uncharacteristic amiability in the arms of another man. They ought be more careful- if he had not booked the entire club out for the use of his admittedly rather large accumulation of friends, and his friends only, then he might have said something to save them the pain of being caught by some eager paparazzo. His statement, however, seems to bring Lovino’s expression back to its usual sourness.

 

“What do you expect me to do about it now? I can hardly go back to the newsroom and ask them to remove it, the paper has already been printed,”

 

“Well what use is an associate in the arts if I can’t have someone rescind a piece on my behalf?” he whines, reaching back to steal Erzsebet’s cigarette again. She gives it up willingly.

 

“I don’t think journalism is classed as ‘the arts’, is it?” A fourth voice introduces himself into the conversation from the seat to Francis’ left. There’s little inflection, and the man’s height means he has no choice but to speak down at his peers. As such, his interference is little welcome by the Frenchman.

 

“It’s my poetry, Lars, of course it’s art,”

 

“Hardly,” Lovino chuckles. A year into his apprenticeship as an assistant art curator and the boy seems to have developed something of a complex.

 

“And what is a painting then? If I wanted to see a face or a landscape, I’d simply leave the house. When I want to experience true anguish, or true elation, I must pick up a book and let the rhythmic waxing of some tortured soul overcome me,”

 

A pregnant silence overcomes the group, but only them- around them, the floors continue to pound and vibrate with a jazz melody and a thousand tapping feet. Glasses clink and spill and shatter all over the floor. Dresses are ripped in fervent frenzies of dances under lights reflecting off every mirrored surface- of which, there are many. In the years past, the fourteenth of July has become an event of such grand proportions in North West London as it had been back in Francis’ own home district in Paris as a child- a change which he likes to attribute entirely to himself, and one which he has enjoyed immensely. Now though, for just a moment, it’s as if none of that is happening.

 

Then a wave of laughter, pure uncensored laughter, washes over each of them, even those who had been silently listening until this point. It has them clutching their stomachs, leaning over, and holding delicate hands over their faces to keep some semblance of refined dignity about them. This continues for far too long than should be proper, before they run short of breath, and Antonio- no longer with his arms around the sour Italian, and looking all the more mournful for it- finds his opportunity to speak.

 

“For what it’s worth, I thought your poem was rather good,” he shrugs. He does not look at Francis, though not in a way that a liar would avert his eyes. Rather, the most likely explanation is that he is searching for the nearest waiter making his rounds with a tray of bubbling drinks. Sat far away from the bustling bar, however, none of the servers have quite made their way over to the couch they inhabit.

 

“You’re one of my best friends, Antonio, it is your duty to say you liked it. Is it just this one that you liked, and not all of the others? I’ve quite the catalogue, as you should know,”

 

“Did they mention little Feliciano in the article this time?” Erzsebet interrupts just as Francis’ voice goes as flat as Lars’ and as stern as Lovino’s. It’s best to keep him buttered, they’ve come to learn, not unlike the pastries he covets on mornings after nights like these. Especially so early into a night, with it not having long since gone dark, navy and glittering over the streets of London. It works, and with the mention of the Frenchman’s part-time favourite muse, he is distracted from Antonio’s bumbling flattery by the article which has caused him such grief.

 

“Not this time, I don’t think. He won’t be happy, bless his heart, he was revelling in the publicity last time. Where is ma petite bichette tonight, I don’t think I’ve seen him since we arrived,”

 

“Where else? Lighting up the dance floor with Gilbert, as per usual. I think I saw Alfred with them too, though of course I wasn’t sure if it actually was him,” Erzsi chuckles, glancing towards the mass of people throwing themselves over and about each other, not one of them out of time with the music. Buried within it, she can see neither Feliciano or Alfred- though that is to be expected. Gilbert, on the contrary, is hardly known for his prowess in elusivity, yet tonight seems to be excelling at it. Francis tuts.

 

“They’re going to hurt themselves one day, and I shall have no sympathy. It’s nice to hear that Alfred may be enjoying himself though, he’s usually such a bore with his textbooks and his spectacles,”

 

“Perhaps we should join them,” Antonio suggests. Lovino and Lars roll their eyes, while Francis and Erzsebet’s brighten. A problem arises.

 

“Darling, I don’t think there’s room for us over there- just look,” Erzsi suggests. A silent chorus of disappointment rings just as loud as one of relief as five pairs of eyes wander towards the floor.

Glitter and beads tumble down on to polished beams of wood as shoes click, skirts swish, and trouser hems flap about bare ankles. Bare arms, some ghostly pale, some with a delectable Mediterranean tan, swing without restraint. Diamonds and pearls on exquisite wrists swing with them, emeralds and amethysts hand from earlobes, rubies and sapphires bounce on smooth decolletages. Bodies brush against bodies, and modesty isn’t even a passing thought under the bliss of pink wines and other things Francis won’t care to discuss until later.

 

“Of course there’s no room for us,” Francis chuckles, stubbing the last of Erzsebet’s cigarette out on the sole of his shoe.

 

“Half of Europe is here, never mind half of London. I think we’ve had every bar in Mayfair full since last midday, I certainly had my fill of _‘_ _Bon anniversaires’_ when I went out for lunch,”

 

“Perhaps we should have taken Antonio’s father’s yacht and had a private soiree,”

 

“Ah, but what fun would have that been?” Antonio chuckles before anyone can agree with Erzsi’s suggestion. The thought of asking his father to borrow his prized possession doesn’t quite strike fear into his heart, but it certainly comes close.

 

As if their ears had been burning, and it had taken them the rest of the time to emerge from the mob of dancers, the previously absent trio emerges before the group in all their red-cheeked, tousled-hair glory. Gilbert without a jacket, Alfred with his glasses tucked away in his pocket and his eyes struggling to focus, and perhaps most oddly, Feliciano, three inches shorter than usual, with his shoes in his hand and his stockinged feet sticking to the floor. Odd, yet none of them even think to question his current state- none of them except Lovino, of course. The bond of brotherhood is a strong thing.

 

“Why aren’t you wearing your shoes, fratellino? Your feet are going to get crushed,”

 

“But my feet _hurt_ ,” Feli whines- a petulant child just short of stamping his feet for emphasis.

 

“Erzsi, swap with me, I miss brogues,”

 

“I don’t think so, why should I be the one in pain? You chose to wear them. And just think how peculiar you’d look in a dress and shoes, you’d get even more questions. Not to say that I wouldn’t look _divine_ in a suit and heels, mind,”

 

“I haven’t been getting questions- God bless _La Garçonne_ ,” he giggles. Erzsebet can’t help but join him, much to Lovino’s unamusement.

 

“Everything’s beginning to get rather hectic over there. I think we underestimated Francis’ drawing-power,” Alfred huffs, interrupting the banter with his own bashful smile and shake of the shoulders.

 

“People are starting to spill out onto the streets, and not just from here. Apparently they’re coming all the way from The Ritz- I’m sure I saw Lukas and Mikkel out the window a few minutes ago,” Gilbert’s body still moves with the music as he talks, almost as if he’s desperate to run back across the floor, burst through the doors of the champagne bar, and join the supposed crowds forming outside.

 

“Well, since there’s no room for us here, perhaps we should go outside too. It’s lovely weather out after all, and I’ve heard- though don’t tell anyone- that a certain somebody may have organised a fireworks display set to go off in about-”

 

Francis pauses to check his watch in a way that requires so much inherent grace, elegance, and awareness of self, that only the Frenchman could truly manage it. The band is a thin, dark leather, cushioned ever so slightly for comfort, with a pale golden watch face, free of any large, unsightly, or cumbersome numbers. It’s not an heirloom- that, twenty-four carat gold and engraved with his family’s crest, is tucked away safe in a locked drawer back in the apartment- but it was eye-wateringly expensive, at the very least. Nothing is so important as one’s appearance, or so his Grandmère had said every time he’d seen her throughout his life- beginning on the day of his birth, to his dishevelled and exhausted mother.

 

“Half an hour, perhaps?”

 

“Sounds a swell idea- shall we all?” Erzsebet asks, stroking her hands up and down Francis’ shoulders, the sleeves of her jacket pushed up to her elbows and her shirt beginning to untuck with the repeated motion. The Frenchman practically glows golden as he bathes in the attention.

 

“I’m not sure I’m drunk enough to go outside yet,” Lovino moans- the sluggishness of his movements as he too struggles to sit up straight amongst the cushions suggesting that this is not entirely the case.

 

“Lars, are you slinging?”

 

“Depends-” the Dutchman hums- “Are you paying? You still owe me for the last two lots, you’re lucky I’m a generous bastard,”

 

Lovino has the decency to look almost sheepish before Francis steps in.

 

“You don’t want that, I left a box of the decent stuff at the bar. I’ll go collect it before we leave- and a few bottles too, I’m sure they won’t mind,”

 

“Come, Lovino, it’ll be such a laugh,” Feliciano pleads, still hugging his shoes to his chest. The elder Italian has no choice to concede.

 

They move towards the bar as a unit, and everyone in the building watches like a thousand hawks to see what they do next. Feli catches the eye of the band leader. A shy smile, a cheeky wink and a disapproving glare- the latter being from Lovino. Reflections in the brass of the bar top stare back up at them. The bartender, rushed off his feet and not paid nearly enough to have to deal with such a horde, appears rather happy to see them go, and hands over the locked chest without hesitation. Four bottles of fine Champagne follow, but no glasses- it’s not a pressing matter. Francis cradles the box as though it is a child as he leads his posse across the floor, the crowds parting like the red sea to let them through. They come back together behind them with the intention of following, though wait some moments so as not to be seen as too eager.

 

Gilbert was right- Sloane Square is already packed tightly with people, some familiar, some not- all with invitations, no doubt, given that Francis was forced to hire three of Alfred’s scholarly friends in order to finish writing them on time. And when the first people notice the blond has made his way outside, they will soon follow, and the streets will grow even more raucous. But for now, it is still quiet enough for them to find an empty table to crowd around, set the chest down, and partake in its contents. The hinges are well worn and comfortable- they do not shriek when the box is torn open.

 

Its contents are familiar. Three metal tins, vintage, with old French advertisements for menthol throat pastilles printed on them- one a faded lemon, one pea green, the other a calming shade of sea-blue. Several brass tubes the length of a thumb with fluted rims rattle around them, dented and scratched, but all of them clean as of that morning. Beneath them, a gilded hand mirror of around the same dimensions as the base of the chest with the handle having been broken off. Francis reaches in without hesitation, and snatches up the yellow tin, before digging the mirror out and setting it down on the centre of the tabletop. The tin pops open, and holding the lid with his index finger so it will not flap back down and interfere, he tips a small amount of the contents onto the mirror.

 

When he goes to replace the tin, he spends an extraordinary amount of time digging around the box’s contents, leaving a pile of white exposed to the summer air. Thankfully, it is not a windy night, for this has taken longer than they had anticipated- and their body language is all the more clearly agitated because of it.

 

“Does anyone have something to cut? I seem to have lost my cards,” he admits, his fingers trembling out of some offbeat and unwelcome lust. Lovino procures something from the inner pocket of his jacket- a small business card of high quality paper, with the name and address of his manager’s office printed on the front. Most importantly, it is rigid enough to scrape against the mirror without folding, and so without so much as a mumbled _‘merci’_ , he takes it and separates the pile into six perfectly straight, perfectly even lines- despite the shakes.

 

“Birthday boy first,” he chuckles, hastily grabbing one of the many snuff tubes from the box and leaning down over the table, before inhaling one of the lines in a quick, fell swoop. With the tube still in his hand, he brings a knuckle up to his right nostril, presses inward, and sniffs again, his eyes screwed shut in concentration. He releases it, takes a smooth breath in, and sighs contently.

 

“Who else is playing,”

 

He lifts the mirror up as his friends begin to crowd around him. A gentle burn rises in the bridge of his nose making talking a stranger experience, but it’s nothing he’s not used to, and while it is the highest quality batch in his carefully curated collection, the effects have yet to kick in. The group begins to crowd closer towards the mirror, each of them selecting a tube and wiping the edge clean on their clothing. Little Feliciano is the first one to sample the goods. They’ll have to watch him later, he’s peppy enough as it is, with a _joie de vivre_ unmatched by any other. His older brother glares, but does not refuse the offer himself soon after. His eyes cringe at the bitter taste.

 

One by one, each of them do the same, barring only two: Lars, who flat-out refuses, though this was no unexpected- a merchant of vice who’s body is the holiest of temples; and Erzsebet, who Francis knows considers partaking for a moment, before sticking to her word and refusing. She’ll have some choice words later about their habits, all of them are sure of this- when does she not- but they won’t mention her apparent moment of weakness. Even Alfred, who’ll later claim regret as he prepares for a morning spent in a lecture theatre, seems enthusiastic about the prospect of a so-called, _‘enhanced’_ night.

 

 

* * *

 

 

It does come as somewhat of a surprise to Arthur that there is only one cafe, restaurant, bar, or pub in the whole of London open, and with a seat available to him, upon leaving Victoria station. He’s not entirely sure what he had been expecting- surely, for most of the city, especially its heart, to still be bustling with activity even after midnight. That’s what they’d said, back in the village, where the inn’s door is open throughout all hours but not to any outsiders. The difference in the price of his ticket for travelling so late in the day had been compensation enough, or so he’d thought, but he was wandering for almost half an hour before finding somewhere to rest his feet and settle his stomach.

 

And it’s not the case that there’s nowhere open. The streets- real streets, not mud paths- are dazzlingly brightly lit, golden rays tearing through an inky sky to reflect off clean pavement rather than puddles of rain. Almost every grey brick is taken up by a pair of leather-clad feet, sparkling bodies bouncing from one towering building to another with the same energised smiles on their faces. A thousand voices, most likely more, ring out from every angle, each of them with a different tone, volume, or accent, none of which he could dream of accurately placing. None of them tired or lethargic at this odd hour, which strikes him as especially peculiar.

 

This public house is on the edge of a common, grey and solid, far from the vibrancy of a village green, but with its own unfamiliar yet intriguing character. The paint on the outside walls is peeling, and the flowers in the windows are dying, but he walks in without hesitation nonetheless. Arthur tucks himself into a corner next to a window looking over the square, sliding down into the chair despite its rigid wooden back and leaning the side of his head against the pane of glass. His eyelids are heavy, his limbs stiff from spending most of the day travelling on train, after train, after horse, but the prospect of people-watching is far more pleasant to him than the thought of the worn-down hostel bed which would await him otherwise. Especially in such an alien place as London. Alistair had once disappeared up to Glasgow for a week to find himself, or some other nonsense, and had come back to the West Country seemingly unable to say anything other than ‘city people- they’re a different breed’. He hadn’t noticed at the time, but Arthur certainly recalls some choice looks from his parents upon their agreement.

 

He doesn’t keep track of time. A cup of tea sits steaming on the table before him for a while, before it cools enough to drink. It was rather warm outside, be it the summer weather or the body warmth hanging in stagnant air, but the bottle-green tiled walls and ragged carpet of the pub have a definite chill to them. The heat of the ceramic warms tight fingers as pale hands peek through the sleeves of an oversized tweed coat- a last minute purchase only an hour before leaving from Bristol, far more expensive than anything woven on the local looms, perhaps meant to act as something of a transitional object between his home hamlet and the Chelsea boarding house. But the pockets are large enough to hold a fair few notebooks, so he can at least tell himself it serves a purpose. The tea too had cost far more than he would have ever expected to spend, and the mug sits empty for a significant while without the offer of a refill.

 

He soon comes to find that watching the state of the people outside is a brilliant way to spend his time and count the minutes as they pass. Steady and sure footsteps on well-trodden paths become tentative and messy, each line of movement swaying from one side of the pavement to the next, even stepping into the nearby roads on more than one occasion and coming worryingly close to the cars zooming past. Shoes become lost, shirts are opened, hats are lost and dresses are torn, without any care from the women in them. Attitudes become more temperamental, voices swing from one mood to the next, arms fly for embraces and altercations. Glass smashes and pink liquids glitter as they flow, tiny rivers between cobblestones. Each minute has a new ghostly-thin figure stumbling out of one doorway or another, each of them congregating in the square outside the window, pressed tight up against one another like cattle. The cacophony rises, nearly to the point of it becoming deafening, even behind the stone wall where Arthur sits.

 

A clock chimes over the city, and two o’clock in the morning brings with it a flash of vibrant blue light splitting into tiny shards, which shower over the people stood below it. None of them turn to watch. The crashing noise startles the young Englishman, forcing him to suppress a shudder as he turns his attention to the sky. The blue is followed by a wild pink, a shimmering gold and a particular shade of green which reminds him of the emerald ring found only on his mother’s left hand ring finger on her birthday and at Christmas. They burst with no semblance of rhythm or sequence. The crowd grows more rowdy, each jubilant cheer and threatening shout fighting to compete with the array of bangs and fizzes from the light-show in the sky. An energy rises- the atmosphere swells- the fireworks rage on. Arthur watches it all happen, fingers itching to reach for a notebook and pen, but he knows he won’t need it. Such a foreign experience is the type to permanently burn an image into his mind, negating the need for any words- not that he would be able to conjure those to do the sight true justice.

 

The floor begins to rattle. His heart beats faster as the air starts to sour. The square won’t fit anyone else in, people have taken to standing on benches and edges of fountains simply to be part of the pack, but he can hear more coming. This time, they wear black polished boots with heavy soles and a sheet of steel protecting the toe. They march in time with each other- left, right- the fireworks don’t fall into their count. Someone seems to catch wind of this approaching faction and raises the alarm, creating a greater chaos than Arthur had ever imagined possible as girls in their slips and boys with dishevelled hair run to escape. The square is fenced with black iron that stands far taller than themselves- they can’t all fit through the gaps. The ones who do don’t stay to help. Some of them run past the window, and pay him no mind.

 

“You best stay here tonight,” the Landlady begins, walking up behind him. “This happens every year- I expect it to go on for some time,”

 

He doesn’t disagree, but he can’t tear his gaze away from the crush, and when he sees the landlord move to shut the doors of the pub, Arthur pushes his seat back and rushes towards it, barely slipping through in time. As he tumbles out onto the street and into the waves of people, rows upon rows of men in blue uniforms appear around each corner. He would look more in his place with them than he does with the wild youths- they share the same dark circles under tired eyes- but he’s under no hurry to go anywhere near them, and finds an alley to back into and leave them to their business.

 

A scream rings out. There had been plenty of shouting, and spitting, and hissing, but certainly nothing so chilling. It’s a woman- Arthur’s never heard such a noise from a human before. This seems to set off a chain reaction. Men rush to protect her. Her girlfriends, valiant and brave and most likely a little misguided, swarm one of the nearest police officers, holding up his truncheon like a spoil of war. There’s another scream, another panicked yell. It spreads, but it’s no mass hysteria. Arthur watches as the police officers shed their helmets and belts, subduing the crowd by smacking down any stray limb within their vicinity, pushing innocent men and women alike down the the ground and wiping their boots on their victims’ fine clothes.

 

Between them, they surely won’t have enough pairs of handcuffs to arrest what must be the entire population of London aged between sixteen and twenty-five, but they certainly seem intent on trying. They’ve brought more than one unit of constables to keep up with the demand and manpower required for such a large job, and it appears to be working in their favour. The young party-goers begin to give up their plight in droves, and attempt to go willingly along to one of many police vehicles, and subsequently, stations and cells. But their passiveness makes the process no easier for the sadistic police officers, who enjoy their actions in the same way everyone else had been enjoying the music spilling out from the clubs alongside their unstable, drunken bodies.

 

Black lines of mascara mix with glitter to run down each ladies’ delicately sculpted cheekbones. Dark, vamp-like lipstick smears across cheeks as red and purple bloom on bone, erupting through the skin. Arthur sees red slices through pale expanses amongst the mottled flesh of both the men and the women, even from his safe distance. He can’t blink, he can’t swallow; he’s not even sure that he’s breathing entirely correctly. His feet are concrete blocks- he doesn’t dare move any closer, nor does he even think about attempting to step in and stop the injustice as he watches it unfold. There are, however, other ways.

 

The square has cleared of any life before the clock chimes the next hour.


	2. Strawberries, Cherries...

For all intents and purposes, Eugenie is not a particularly attractive pony. By all accounts, she is in fact rather an average horse. Standing at the median of fifteen and a half hands, her coat the same shade of dirtied chestnut all over, she is a Thoroughbred both in appearance and in spirit. Perfectly content to spend the earlier hours of the morning perusing her way over pastures and fields, through valleys and woodland, but never reluctant to let her feelings be known with regards to crossing the many bridges drawing paths over streams on the routes her rider tends to favour. She’ll snort excitedly when the young grooms approach with their brushes and ribbons, then rear and stomp down on the cobbled courtyard should their bristles catch one spot in particular- a spot they shall never predict, and therefore always inevitably snag, as the fickle creature seems to think up a new skin complaint with every evening spent rolling in the paddock after a day of mild work. Work, which one could hardly even consider work, the pace brought down significantly to match her tempestuous demands, and to pacify her quick temper. A term which comes to be much of an annoyance when studied in comparison to the ache of her owners thighs, and the twinge in his back far too strong for his two decades of riding experience.

 

Antonio- as is often the case- is loath to complain. The horse had been a gift like any other, and he has spent the duration of their relationship treating her as such. Be gracious. Hide any disdain should it cause reasonable offence. Pen a ‘Thank You’ note in your finest handwriting with expensive ink, and bring the topic back into conversation every once in a while at some dinner party or other in order to marvel at the wonderful gift-giving talents you have been lucky enough to have experienced. A horse- well, at the very heart of the matter, a horse should be received no different to the ill-fitting dinner jacket bought for your first university banquet by your Aunt, or the sum of inheritance received from a distant unknown relative which will become the next year’s worth of rent payments if stretched carefully enough. But still, at the same time, the Spaniard is also loath to consider Eugenie a gift at all. It would be more prudent, perhaps, to call her something of an exchange made between two wealthy fathers, each wanting to further their own standing in the eyes of the other more than they wish to please their sons, as had been the initial pretence behind their deal. A Beilschmidt horse, from one of the most prestigious breeding dynasties European equestrian has to offer, and the burgeoning polo career which had accompanied it; this in exchange for a well crafted yacht with all the finest cream leather furnishings, the wood of the stern matching the colour of the pony’s fur perfectly. Antonio had said nothing of it at the time. Why should he have- his father’s business was, naturally, his father’s business to be concerned with, and the recent, somewhat graphic death of his childhood steed took up far more space in his mind. He says nothing now- he does not possess the same fiery Andalusian spirit buried deep within Eugenie’s bloodline. When the weather is agreeable, he and Gilbert enjoy the yacht together.

 

The sun has risen over the stables, but only recently. It had been dark when Antonio had left the house, enjoying winding country lanes all to himself on that mild morning, and the temperature has yet to catch up. He’s lived in England for some time now, and no longer longs for woolen scarves and coats when the temperature drops below ten degrees Celsius, but even without the coastal windchill a simple shirt is not quite sufficient. A thinly knitted cricket jumper has been thrown haphazardly over his outfit, and he pulls the sleeves down as far as they will stretch, balling up the extra fabric in his hands to form pseudo gloves. Dirt from the latch on the gate stains the cream, but he pays the mud no mind. The ground beneath his feet, however, is dry and cracked. Each blade of grass lining the edges of the pathway has been scorched and yellowed as the sun has bronzed his own skin further than usual. Dust clouds gather at the soles of his boots, coating the polished black leather in a gentle grey film. Golden light still hangs low in the purple sky, strobing between leaves and trunks and pouring over his face. For a second he is blinded, but the intrinsic memory in his feet carries him forward towards the sound of a nickering harras kicking up straw and wood shavings behind each of their individual stable doors, eager to chase each other out onto the lush green- if only Mr Beilschmidt, senior, were so generous. He is the only human soul there so early in the morning- no grooms, no stable hands, no fellow riders. The staff don’t get paid to be here at such an odd hour, Antonio has no qualms whatsoever with them- but it makes his mornings in the saddle far more enjoyable when his horse has been fed before becoming too enraged at the injustice of having to be cooped up for some hours in her- dare he say it- luxuriously equipped stable. Yachts aren’t cheap, and it had been a fair trade. The pony requires far more extravagance than he does, judged on monetary value alone. As such, he has made a habit of rising before the cockerels, and doing for free what the teenaged help get wages for. 

 

He doesn’t head towards her gate to say a gentle greeting of ‘Good Morning’. If she sees him dare do anything other than walk straight towards the feed room, she’ll be far more of a nuisance than usual, despite the fact that Antonio knows such insolence exhausts her. The other horses, either still sweetly slumbering or close enough to being so, pay the intruder no mind as he struggles with the stiff bolt keeping the door to the feed room shut. Horses are crafty creatures, be they excessively handsome, worryingly plain, or otherwise, and before the installation of the bolt there had been several occasions on which Antonio had arrived to the stable only to find a layer of alfalfa strewn haphazardly across the cobbles. However, he wasn’t expecting the mechanism to be both horse and human proof, and as such is surprised when the clanging sound of metal on metal, in addition to Eugenie’s impatient stomping, does not cause something akin to a riot.

 

The Eastern wall of the feed store is lined with buckets, shallow and wide, all piled precariously atop each other. Antonio plucks the top two from the shortest pile to minimise his chances of pulling down an entire structure, and breathes a small prayer at his success. Two excruciatingly long days after the party- after pink bubbles and white powders and a night spent sleeping on the cold concrete of a police cell with several other revellers both known and unknown to him- his head still aches as though his brain has swollen, and threatens to burst out of the confines of his skull at the slightest provocation. He’d lost a rather expensive shoe in that cell, and highly doubts that the other will ever see its twin again. A shame, really. The noise of one whinnying horse is plenty enough to cause him bother- two dozen dishes clattering to the ground would surely kill him. Along the wall opposite stands a lesser amount of buckets, though each of these is far deeper, wider, and taller than their counterparts. The room is large, but four of the containers take up the entire wall’s worth of space, within them four different feed mixes: Stallions, Geldings, Mares, and Weanlings. After gently setting the two dishes down on the room’s table, he slides open the lid of the bin marked ‘Stallions’, and uses the enamel milk jug inside to half-fill both dishes. One, of course, for Eugenie, who is sure to have enough of an activity filled day that a portion of the more hearty stallion mix is excusable. The other is for Gilbert’s gelding, Fritzsi, who resides in the enclosure next to Eugenie’s and is sure to have awoken before Toni gets back to the gate with Eugenie’s breakfast. Though a Gelding, Fritzsi too has a long and arduous day ahead of him- provided, of course, that Gilbert shows up to the fields. Antonio has not spoken to him since the party, and it would not be entirely unlike the Prussian man to disappear without a trace for a week or so. Closing the lid of the feed bin, he then sets one of the smaller buckets on top of the other to carry them both on careful feet back to where the awakened horses stand waiting. He leaves the door open, with the intent to go back and shut it in a few minutes when he makes his way over to the tack room standing beside it. He’ll keep a close eye on the rest of the herd, but he doubts that he’ll end up having to wrangle any of them back away from the temptation as he had done some years ago now.

 

As he had predicted, Fritzsi stands proudly at the door to his stable upon the Spaniard’s return, fighting the sleep in his eyes and swishing his tail to and fro as though he’s relying on the movement to keep him awake. Antonio almost feels remorse for waking him, but it’s not as though he had barged in and lifted the poor horse from the ground himself- if he could, he certainly would not still be in the revered yet mundane world of polo. Eugenie has leaned an impressive amount around the wall which separates the two enclosures, and comes just short of nudging Fritzsi’s snout with her own to push the Gelding back and be fed first. He doesn’t like rewarding her impatient nature, but he’d be lying if he said he didn’t feel the slightest bit compelled by the look in her eyes- be that positively or negatively compelled. As such, he puts both buckets on the floor, opens Eugenie’s stable- thankfully, she steps back as the door swings towards her- and slides hers in across the threshold. Distracted by the mix of grass and grains, she allows Antonio to lock the door again, and he allows himself a moment to be proud that the interaction did not end with a spillage or a bruise. Fritzsi is a far less stressful matter. The two horses had been born within days of each other, weaned together, trained together, given the same accommodations and food, and Antonio considers it to be one of life’s greatest mysteries how the two creatures grew to have such different characters. Although, Fritzsi is not immune to having moments, and with the way the Prussian speaks about the experience of riding the horse, he’d struggle to find a buyer should he ever wish to sell him. The grass truly is greener on the other side, it would seem. Both ponies still have hay in their nets, and water in their troughs, so Antonio leaves to allow them to eat in peace. His own stomach aches with emptiness, the soft flesh of his mouth dry and sticky, but his jaw is too stiff and his head too heavy to even begin thinking about breakfast.

  
  


* * *

 

Clementine’s Parlour- or ‘Clemmie’s’, as it is known by London Town’s bohemians and libertines too rushed off their feet by leisure and follies to bother with the extra unnecessary syllables- is the unknown behemoth of morning dining on the Chelsea embankment. A purposeful stranger to advertising and marketing, the location of her whereabouts is spread solely on a need to know basis by her most loyal patrons, of which, there are many. The building is nestled between the premises of a milliner and a cordwainer, halfway down a lane closer to an alleyway than a shopping arcade, free of any traffic be it foot or otherwise during the majority of the days’ hours. 

 

The stones on the ground are clean and as flat as the day they were laid some several centuries ago, and the walls of the building shine a delicate yellow, unmarred by smoke and soot from the factories across the river. There had once been a sign above the glass doors- a rectangle of wood painted a delicate shade of purple, with the mistress owner’s name painted in swooping white letters. Now, the overhead space between the two lines of terraced buildings is filled with a canopy of hanging plants and foliage, green, white and lilac, dripping water from the rain onto the street below during the spring months, but somehow still looking just as fresh and vibrant under the July sun. The sign, faded now after years of use, blends into the flowering sheet, making the small cafe instantly more exclusive, and somehow, even busier. Although, that had never been a problem before. The establishment’s atmosphere had always been more than enough to draw customers, each chair filled within minutes of opening on a morning, and kept full until minutes before closing in the early afternoon. 

 

The elusive Miss Clementine, ever the savvy businesswoman, has chosen, it would appear, to alter the decor- and the menu alongside it- as each year passes, never missing the latest trend or fashion, and ensuring that the cafe always seems new and exciting. This year, the walls are a dusty shade of rose, neither too loud or too demure. A shade which reflects the colour of many patrons’ darling dresses and jewelry stones, such is Clemmie’s eye for style. The pink tones reflect off a shining white tiled floor, immaculately polished, and free of any scratch or blemish even under the most scrutinous of eyes. There’s not much light to be found down this lane, but what there is, the parlour absorbs through one of its many windows. Each table has the use of its own lamp for the days on which the sun is more shy than usual, and there are three wide chandeliers on the ceiling. These do not hang with the grandeur of some others nearby, as the roof is low and cosy, though this is not a detriment. The room feels spacious and uncluttered with its glass tables and abundance of mirrors, plush suede seating again a brilliant white doing little to overload the senses. It’s never too warm, or too cold. The gentle smell of honey and menthol is always present in some way or another. The prices are just high enough to keep out any potentially undesirable customers, but good lord is the food worth the money.

 

There’s a table tucked around a corner, behind the staircase and still next to the window. The chairs are slightly comfier, the light more ambient, the music a little bit easier to talk over. Far away enough from the kitchens that the noise of boiling water and clanging trays isn’t an issue, but close enough that the agonising wait for food service is not as prolonged. Nobody sits there. Primarily, because this particular table tends to be occupied from the minute the doors open, and often before. But also, as a side-effect of this, the fact that every regular patron of Clemmie’s is well aware that that table in particular belongs to one bright-eyed and bouncy Italian, and by extension, his imposing Hungarian friend in trousers. It’s not as though the pair don’t make themselves known to the rest of the restaurant, far from it. The accented amalgamation of French and English in which they communicate, accompanied more often than not by excited shrieks and exuberant hand gestures, has become just as much a part of the furniture as the chairs and tables themselves. Ever since their weekends escaping from boarding school dorms, Feliciano and Erzsebet have eaten breakfast at that table. 

 

They don’t even have to order anymore. Before they have the chance to sit down, a serving-girl brings over two tall glasses of sparkling white wine stained pink with strawberry juice- prosecco, not champagne, at Feliciano’s insistence, to make the comedown from the previous night somewhat easier on their weary souls. When they’ve settled and finished their drinks, the same girl, in her grey skirt and lilac blouse, will bring two warmed white plates decorated with generous slices of clafoutis prepared fresh in the early hours of the morning. When they’re in season, Clemmie has workers out in the cherry fields at dusk so that the just-ripened, tart red fruits can be on the train to London and ready to cook before the breakfast service. Plant to plate in a matter of hours, and that’s why she can charge so much. That, and there are plenty of people in London willing to pay for such high-quality service. Some may say it’s the closest thing to a royal experience you can manage without actually having to court one of the princes themselves, but they’re the sort who haven’t often experienced London’s many other exclusivities- unluckily for them.

 

And then, when they’ve finished eating, the waitress will give them twenty minutes to lay out a gossip itinerary for the morning, before carrying over two deep bowls of coffee with plenty of milk. There they’ll stay, inadvertently informing everyone of the life and times of half of Mayfair’s population, until lunchtime. Sometimes they’ll stay for a second meal, sometimes they’ll make their way over to another equally-as-quaint eatery. On the odd occasion, they’ll go back home to catch up on some much-needed beauty sleep, as they would have done today had it not been for the fact that the two had spent much of the last day lounging atop feather mattresses, much to the chagrin of young Feliciano’s brother who was left to man the household alone. With that, and of course with the help of the finest subtle cosmetics, tiredness seems a particularly distant concept.

 

On the agenda this morning: the latest copy of ‘The Looking Glass’ magazine, provided to them by Lovino and his somewhat dubious connections to the printworks as usual the evening before general sale. Not enough time to refute or remove any scandalous information about their little posse which may have made it onto the pages in glossy black ink, but plenty of time, they have found, to realise that they need to hide any issue of the magazine from Herr Beilschmidt senior, the damned informant. Erzsebet slides the rolled-up paper from her purse without a word, and flattens it across the centre of the table, between the crockery and the silverware. Tatler it is not, and if this were any other establishment she would not be so brazen about displaying the publication. Across the front is a rather stylised drawing of a woman- a dear friend of Lars and Antonio’s, if she remembers correctly- looking rather worse for wear, with dark makeup smeared down each side of her face, and both of her shoes missing. Her clothes, tattered and torn as they may be, still cover the majority of her modesty. They’ve been kind to her- Erzsebet had been there to witness the scene on which the drawing was clearly based. 

 

She’s reluctant to peel back the first page. As well as their finely-honed team of regular journalists, ‘The Looking Glass’ offers space to any uppity toff thinking that people would be interested in what they have to say. It is here where rumours are started, where careers are destroyed, and where they find their names so frequently. And with this being the first iteration of the party since the end of Francis’ party, she doesn’t have high hopes for her reputation- or rather, what little is left of it- to come out on the other side unscathed. Feli glares at her. Not unkindly, as his brother prefers, but his amber eyes full of anticipation still pierce. 

 

She opens the cover, flicks through the first few pages, and hardly dares to look. There’s the usual fare- pictures with supposedly witty comments, satirical cartoons, advertisements. Thus far, nothing too incriminating. They’d both stuck to limits during the event, albeit relatively high ones, and their penchant for a shared wardrobe is no secret in these circles. Alfred, on the other hand, comes across a little worse, bless his soul. He’s hardly a _bon viveur_ , but people expect better from their scholarly friend. 

 

It’s not until she reaches the centrefold spread, and finds there several dense blocks of text, that she sees it as necessary to stop. Both pairs of eyes scan the pages. Their hands tremble. Their food goes ignored.

 

 

* * *

 

“You do realise that we pay people to do that, right?”

 

As the sun had begun to rise and warm the courtyard, Antonio had tossed his jacket aside to hang over one of the fences, and let the golden rays soak into his skin. After the horses had finished eating, he’d led both Fritzsi and Eugenie out into one of the paddocks with rugs on their backs to keep the flies at bay, and emptied their stables of any dirty wood shavings. With the hay nets refilled and the muck cart filled, he’d managed to immerse himself in brushes and ribbons, dusting off Eugenie’s fur and braiding up her tail. The stable hands had come and gone with little fanfare, each horse now fed and cleaned without Toni taking notice of the teenagers’ presence around him. 

 

Gilbert’s entrance, however, is much more difficult to ignore. His boots, heavier-soled than the Spaniard’s, thud just as loudly on the stone as the hooves of the horses. And as if he could not hear them approaching, the pain behind his eyes twists suddenly as his still peace is interrupted. His hair reflects the light like a mirror, and his skins shines a stark contrast to the navy blue of his shirt. As he walks, he seems to take it upon himself to shout a jolly ‘Good Morning’ at everyone he passes, be they a rider, a groomer, or the gardener who lingers around the front of the livery’s reception building. All this, before descending upon where Antonio sits like a storm- a storm he had predicted, but still dreads all the same.

 

“I’m well aware, thank you. She doesn’t like the people you pay to do this,”

 

Gilbert pretends to look contemplative for a second, before conceding with a shrug.

 

“Fair enough. I suppose it’s a good thing, all considered- the farrier is coming this afternoon, and you know how Vatti feels about the ponies looking good for him, especially since these are the shoes they’ll be wearing for the game. God forbid they have a single knot in their tails, it’s not as if he doesn’t see plenty of others every week. These magnificent creatures must look like Gods in comparison,” he moans, crossing his arms and leaning his back against the fence.

 

“These are million-dollar ponies, Gilbert Siegmund,” Toni smirks, in a poor imitation of what would appear to be Herr Beilschmidt’s favourite sentence. They’d probably both laugh if it wasn’t so close to home.

 

“I was planning on taking her out this evening when it starts getting cooler,” he continues, “what time is the farrier coming?”

 

“Six- like he does every month. You should know this by now, my dear friend. If we get Eugenie over with first then you can take her out afterwards, break the new shoes in. But Vatti said we shouldn’t exercise them too much for the next few weeks, he wants all their energy to be on polo training,”

 

Polo training, meaning spending entire days in the same field without leaving for so much as a light lunch, having his entire hand come up in blisters from the taped-up wood of his stick, both his legs shaking from exhaustion and the skin on his neck burning. And, the aspect most likely in Toni’s case, it means constantly being thrown off your irate and overtired horse, without so much as the springtime mud to cushion your fall. As vexatious as she is, Antoni will soon be forced to treasure trekking with Eugenie through the nearby woodland, at least until his team’s season is over.

 

Gilbert seems to notice the way his shoulders droop and his eyes darken as he begins to pack away the grooming equipment, and sees the roll of ribbon in the case before he has the chance to say anything he means to be reassuring which will, inevitably fall flat. Instead, he picks up the spool of bright pink satin, and hands it over with a pleased smirk.

 

“You should put the ribbon in her tail, make her feel pretty- maybe then she’ll be a little bit better behaved,” 

 

 

* * *

 

Francis knows exactly where to find Feliciano and Erzsebet, but he still offers a quick glance to the window by their table as he walks to Clemmie’s door, on the odd chance that he might have forgotten. Unlikely, but sleeping the pain of a hangover away on a concrete floor has unsurprisingly had some adverse effects. Namely, that he had forgotten to replenish his- previously- rather impressive jam collection, a true tragedy of the modern era, and one which forced him to locate his ‘weekday morning’ shoes in order to make his way down to the cafe and quell his roaring stomach. The light but lively conversation which awaits him there will simply be a treasured accompaniment, provided they are not too loud.

 

As he passes, he catches a glimpse at the way his hair, tangled with more of an ash-tone than he would prefer in this season, falls haggardly around his face. He cannot see the stubble which sits between ‘I don’t care, I’m disgusting’ and ‘I don’t care, I’m cool’, nor does he notice the subtle lines in his ivory skin, but the mirror that morning had seemed far more forgiving to his wretched appearance. Alas, he cannot stand at the window and preen until he’s passable, as that would surely make him look even stranger than he does in this moment. Instead, he pulls the tie from his hair- stolen from Erzsebet, at some point or another- combs willowy fingers through his locks, and ruffles them in an attempt to look more debonair and rugged. All this whilst keeping his footsteps short and slow on his way to the door in the hope that he will look slightly more presentable by the time he reaches it. His name will get him nowhere, and that’s not a situation he’s used to, but if they think he ruins the aesthetic of the establishment by simply being there then they will have no qualms about making him leave. That’s why he likes it so much.

 

He enters the restaurant without drawing any attention. Not exactly the outcome he had hoped, but far better than the one in which he receives negative attention. Then he rounds the corner to where Feli and Erzsi sit, to no fanfare. This is the point at which he begins to worry. Erzsi, at least, is nothing to worry about- nonchalance is part of her charm. Feliciano, his sweet petit bichette, on the other hand, would usually be fawning over him at this point, straightening his shirt and tucking loose tendrils of hair behind his ear, only for Francis to pull them forward again. Instead, they show no signs that they are even aware of his presence. Their breathing doesn’t hitch, their fingers don’t jolt, they don’t lift their heads to say hello. If he weren’t so concerned, Francis would think it all terribly rude. 

 

He wraps his fingers around the back of a nearby chair- mercifully empty, for once, almost as if it had been waiting for him- and pulls it over to their table without asking the people it had previously been sat by. Sitting down as close to the edge of the table as he can manage, he fakes a loud sigh of annoyance to get their attention. It doesn’t work. Then he sees what has them so enraptured. Those mint-green pages, that painfully recognisable font which haunts his dreams. His heart stops, and doesn’t sink, but rises right up into his throat, choking him. This time, there are no drawings or photographs. Those ones he can explain away, if need be, as exaggerated, altered, or simply caught at the wrong moment. Two pages worth of text- the centrefold, no less- are a trickier situation. Whether it was written by a real journalist or not, words always come across more intellectually, and people like to believe them without a thought to how intellectual a gossip rag can truly be. 

 

“We’re in the paper again, Francis,” Feliciano looks up at him, his shining eyes blown wide, his lips stained a delectable purple. 

 

“I don’t know why we keep your brother around, petit, I ask him to do the simplest of things and stop this happening-” he begins to tut, before Erzsebet interrupts him.

 

“No, Francis, it’s,” she hesitates.

 

“Just read this,”

 

Francis clutches the edges of the magazine and drags it closer with renewed fervour.

 

_ When I told my parents that I planned to spend my summer in the City of London, I swear I’d never seen them act so concerned about my safety. Before that point, all of the warnings in my life had consisted of ‘Arthur, don’t put your hands near the buzz saw,’ or ‘Arthur, you can’t climb in the grain silo’. Like most of the parents in my village, mine simply left me to my own devices so that I could figure out the intricacies of living all by myself. And of course, I soon figured out that sitting up in the attic of the farmhouse with a book was a much safer use of my time, away from mother cows ready to trample anyone who would dare to look at their calves, and more importantly, away from my herd of older brothers. _

 

_ Naturally, I expected some resistance. Salisbury had always seemed a big and scary place to my family, who I presume had not gone further than the lane we lived on for some generations now, never mind Bristol, and certainly never mind London. So I waited until everyone had finished dinner, on the logic that the feeling of fullness would help to avoid any outbursts of protest. Then I stood up at the dinner table, looked both of my parents in the eyes, and told them that I had bought a train ticket to the capital that I had no intention of wasting.  _

 

_ My mother’s face paled; My father’s face reddened. Suddenly, I was crushed under stories about drunken men in fancy suits carrying guns in their hats, diseased prostitutes taking advantage of any wandering soul they happen across, illicit substances, wild extravagance, and all-around doom. The most exciting thing I had experienced in my life up until that point was discovering that one of our ducks had found his way over to the greengrocer’s shop, so of course any inkling of liveliness had me practically bouncing on the spot, ready to leave in that very moment. I was told I would get robbed, beaten, maybe even killed- and of course, I did feel some guilt for making my mother worry so. But I’d come to realise some time before then, that it’s okay to be a little bit selfish every once in a while.  _

 

_ Imagine my surprise when I arrived in London late one night to realise that it would not be the thugs or the flappers who would give me grief on my travels, but rather the very people my mother swore would protect me should the worst have come to fruition.  _

 

_ I sat in the window of a rather nice little public house on Sloane Square, and watched as men in black shined boots and crisp blue uniforms took breaks to rub the sleep out of their eyes before beating groups of innocent party goers alike to the ground. These were not the violent vagabonds I had heard about. These were well-dressed and well-groomed young men in well-tailored suits, on their arms lithe girlfriends in jewelled gowns and feathered headpieces. Granted, perhaps their steps were a little too unsteady, and their voices a little too loud for the early hours, but they were simply enjoying themselves.  _

 

_ Like The Charge of the Light Brigade the police force marched on the revellers, tearing dance partners apart, smashing their own share of glass bottles, ripping expensive fabrics from the bodies with no care for who they belonged to, woman or man. Shoes were kicked aside and abandoned. Strings of jewels snapped sending beads flying in all directions. Those lucky enough to have had the foresight to stay relatively sober staggered away on faun-like feet. The others had to be dragged up from where they lay bleeding on the road to be unceremoniously thrown in to police carts like stray dogs and driven away in light-headed piles.  _

 

_ Within what seemed to me like mere minutes, the streets had been cleared of the dancers, their music silenced and their lights dimmed. Under the streetlamps, I had seen their eyes blooming blue bruises, and red hand prints painting pale skin. There were plenty of signs that they had once been there, but now, all was still. It was not quite the welcome I had imagined from the city folk, cold as it was. And I’m hardly the expert, but I’d like to imagine that this was not an accurate depiction of Londoners themselves. Rather, perhaps, a wider indication of how the city’s establishment treats some of its citizens. After all, I cannot deny how the ages of the merrymakers was far below that of the weathered and wrinkled policemen.  _

 

_ Then there’s always the possibility that I am simply exaggerating. I was the stranger in this situation, and I don’t claim to know the truth behind this tale. But, in my humble opinion, it is a topic worth discussing.  _

 

It takes some time to process. The world around him falls silent as he scans the words over and over, making sure it’s not a case of wishful thinking, nor that there is some sort of secret-code hidden beneath the paragraphs.

 

“Who wrote this?” he asks when he finally finds his voice again, staring back down at the article to find his own answer.

 

“Arthur Kirkland, do we know him?”

 

“I’ve never heard of him,” Feliciano shrugs.

 

“It says right here that he’s just moved to town,” Erzsi taps an intricately manicured fingernail on the paper.

 

“We need to find him- I need to meet him. He could be great for us!”

 

Francis barely stops himself from slamming his hands down on the table as he stands and turns on the ball of his right foot, about to dash out of the cafe as if to find the mysterious ‘Arthur’ standing on the street and waiting for him, before Feli calls out a simple ‘Wait!’.

 

“Eat before you go,” the Italian smiles like an overbearing mother, “You’re looking too thin,”

 

“Are you going to eat with me?” Francis quirks an eyebrow in response, sitting back down at the table. Erzsebet looks over to the clock, and gasps.

 

“No, we can’t stay,” she grabs her bag in a hurry and wraps her arm around Feliciano’s.

 

“Feli has an appointment in an hour, he needs to get ready,”

 

And with that, they’ve gone, leaving Francis alone, around their corner with their dirtied dishes.

 

The name ‘Arthur Kirkland’ runs back and forth in his mind.

**Author's Note:**

> Shout out to Ludwiggle73 for being my number one hype-man <3


End file.
